The Unexpected Snake
by Be3
Summary: In the spring of 1892, Mycroft Holmes reads The Adventure of the Speckled Band. He has only one question. For aragonite, with thanks; x-posted to watson's woes.
1. Mycroft's Question

Prologue

The Diogenes Club had changed little since last I came there.

The same butler ushered me in, closing the door against the chill, though it still wafted through. We passed a few silent gentlemen engrossed in reading or playing chess. The club was a world inside the world.

At last, with vague unease caused by the short summons I'd received not an hour ago pawing at my chest, I was brought before the heavy door behind which voices could be sometimes heard in this tomb of a place. The butler stepped back and disappeared.

My steps hardly made any sound due to the thick matting on the floor, but the enormous man waiting for me with a sleepy air behind a laden tray immediately sat up straighter. His eyes scanned me, and I knew I was laid open to his scrutiny.

'Ah, Dr. Watson,' he rumbled, pleased by my punctuality. 'Come, sit before the fire; you look half-frozen.'

Sitting down, I asked about his welfare. Privately, I wondered if he called me for a medical consultation, improbable as it seemed.

'Not at all,' he said drily, answering the unspoken and making it clear that despite the warm greeting, he would prefer my visit be short. I had no objections.

We took our tea. In the years that passed since Sherlock Holmes, my friend and this man's brother, perished in a waterfall, Mycroft had never called upon me or demanded my presence – though I had tried to deliver the news in person, he hadn't let me in. In vain I tried to decipher his ponderous silence; whatever was the reason that he went against his own custom?

'I received _The Strand_ only this morning,' he said abruptly. 'Otherwise, I would have invited you earlier.'

I nodded, berating myself for not expecting him to be a subscriber. However, the explanation was not explaining anything, merely prodding me in a direction of another question; a distinctly Holmes habit.

I stalled for time.

'I decided to publish some cases – of no national importance, remembering your request - '

'National importance!' he harrumphed, letting anger colour his voice for a first time. 'Let me put it to you directly, sir: Who bought your pen?'


	2. Interested Parties

Chapter 1.

I sat up straighter, amazed and displeased. What did he want with me? The problem – or one of them, taking into account the position occupied by the gentleman and the power he wielded – was that platitudes like 'I can't believe you said this!' would fall on deaf ears; only arguments of real value persuaded brothers Holmes to step back from a conclusion. And I had no idea what I had to defend myself against.

And I could not believe he said this.

'Surprised?' Mycroft asked with a cold smile. 'Insulted, too?'

'As well you know.'

'No, I do not... Have you at least forged your journal?'

This was more than I was ready to take from any man.

'Mr. Holmes, I give you my word that I do not understand your accusations; and if you do not apologize and make yourself clear this instance, I will leave.'

Mycroft sighed. We both were aware that he had the means of bringing me to whatever place he wanted.

We were also aware of his hatred of scandal and noise.

'Perhaps I have judged hastily,' he amended. 'If so, I ask your pardon. Do let us see the papers.'

'_What_ papers?'

'The original notes you made upon the Stoner case! Has not your maid told you to take them with you?'

'Jane can be forgetful,' I shrugged, honestly bewildered by this turn. 'In any case, I was only told to come at once.'

'Sack her.' Mycroft took a sip from his cup. 'It's a pity. We shall have to rely on your memory of the events.'

'It is at your service,' I said, because there was little else to say.

'Splendid! I need not remind you that only the truth will hold. What happened at Stoke Moran?'

He smirked slightly, seeing my surprise.

'I am bound by an oath -'

'Dr Watson. In your latest memoir, there are too many inconsistencies, impossibilities, and plain unsherlockities – and I haven't used that word since college.'

'What a waste,' I muttered.

'You have my brother make deductions Scotland Yard Inspectors would laugh at! Ha! Snakes that hear! Madmen who stuff them into holes, with only a dark lantern to light the room! Madmen who _take their shoes off_ waiting for a bite!'

He shuddered. So did I, remembering the old house and the terror we met there.

'Now. The truth, or should I offer you my own version of why you wrote it so?'

I started to voice my agreement, but Mr. Government was in too high a dudgeon to listen.

'Look at your cuffs,' he went on sarcastically. 'Look at your boots. You have recently suffered an increase in expenditure – all parents do – and your budget hasn't grown… it stands to reason that you would be amenable to tailoring your tales to a certain party's requests…'

I stood up. Dire straights or no, I'd never change a word for a fee.

'I am sorry,' my host said glibly. 'This is, of course, only what it looks like. Please uncover the real reasons, and let us put the whole business behind us.'

'There is a third party involved,' I said reluctantly. 'The police.'

He nodded. His discretion was a given. Still, I was loath to abuse trust put in me by other people, unsheltered from evil that could be unleashed by a misplaced confidence.

'Consider this,' Mycroft offered quietly. 'I might be able to help. And there might be others who'll discover the secret – for you hid it very badly this time.'


	3. Stoke Moran

Chapter 2.

His last remark convince me to agree: there was no point in refusing help, even if it came with a price. The Inspector to whom I had loaned the materials brought from the manor observed, bitterly, that his superiors preferred not to re-open closed cases. The publication served, in part, to refresh their interest.

'I have copies of two notes we collected there,' I said, taking out my notebook. Mycroft took it, giving me the courtesy of not leafing through pages. 'Purely by chance; the notes themselves are being examined by a handwriting expert, and will be returned next Wednesday.'

He put his reading glasses on. I was about to privately gloat at even Mycroft Holmes's inability to glean anything from two disjointed pieces of coded writing when he sighed and muttered, 'No wonder Patterson is exited.'

'Pardon?'

'Surely you did not fancy that I hold him personally responsible for the Professor's escape?' he asked, annoyed. 'The man is competent; I would not have allowed him near _that_ case if it weren't' so.'

'Ah.' I had been unwilling to utter the Yarder's name, but now – 'He traced a connection to some obscure dealings in Surrey.' And had been too preoccupied to share his suspicions clearly. This was, to a degree, why Holmes preferred to work with Lestrade or Gregson: both had learned not to withdraw important data from a fellow investigator. Patterson, though… we didn't know each other well… and he failed to capture Moriarty.

'Surrey, yes. Things are coming to a head there… and we shall reap as we have sown.' He tapped the lines ponderously. 'Perhaps you should go down to the country as well.'

'I doubt I'll have the time.' How quickly he forgot my parenthood when it suited him. Between Jack's teething and Mary's uncertain health I doubted I'll ever have the time to visit the country, and neither did I want to, to be frank.

'I shall have to hear the whole tale.' He pressed the button summoning the butler, who brought in another tea tray and left immediately. I lit a cigarette.

'When we arrived at the manor, it was early enough…'

The house looked less dangerous in broad daylight than my imagination had painted it. The gypsies weren't about. The air was much sweeter here than in the capital. Skylarks sang joyously; an old dog went out and blinked at us – obviously put out of business by the ferocity of its master, itself a sufficient ward against intruders. It went to sleep in a patch of sunlight, not rousing even to a sound of squirrels' quarreling somewhere in the corner.

The hostess was concerned when Holmes described our meeting with her abominable stepfather; I was humbled by her simple, clear bravery – to spend every waking moment in the midst of such… desolation. Somehow, without Roylott, who wrought his mark in crumbled stone and overgrown lanes, it was more of a ruin – too quiet after London.

She shrugged embarrassedly.

'I gave the housekeeper a day off. Would you like some tea after your journey?'

'Never mind.' Holmes hummed, looking over the place like a general. 'We rented a room in the inn; now is not the time to dawdle.' He strode inside, looking around, and we had to follow.

'The baboon is in the conservatory, and I penned the cheetah in the pigsty,' she explained to me as my friend tried every door in the hall. He would scan the inside, nod, and proceed further.

'Of course, there are no pigs… but a side of bacon is a good substitute, isn't it?'

I took her hand. It was cold as ice.

'Do not fear; we shall not let you come to harm.'

Her composure wavered and her eyes misted over, but just then we reached living quarters and Holmes disappeared behind a door; on instinct, we leaped ahead. In my worry I barely heard Miss Stoner's assurances that it was only the servant's room.


	4. The Chase Begins

Chapter 3.

It was indeed the room of Mrs. Spate, the housekeeper. Sparsely furnished, with just the bare essentials and no decorations of any sort or books except a dusty Bible, it revealed a severe character, disdainful of frippery. Perhaps, I thought, Mrs. Spate was superstitious, too – the Bible lied in the very center of the bed.

Light seeped in through the unadorned window; dead flies littered the sill, and burnt moths' bodies haloed the base of a thick, long tallow candle – the only feature that looked like it was ever moved around.

Holmes was huddling over a creaky nightstand.

'She is a bit… odd,' Miss Stoner whispered. By an unspoken agreement, we stopped on the doorstep. 'Going everywhere with her broom… she sweeps all day long, hardly does anything but sweep. I cook. A local woman helps with washing.'

'Remarkable!' Holmes stood up, shoving the drawer shut. He was holding up a pillowcase: a leather tie-string ran around its mouth, and when he turned it out, we saw that inside it shined with wax. Only a narrow band near the bottom remained clean.

'Not so blind, after all,' he observed, showing the carefulness with which the loops were worked. The string could be tightened in a flash. 'Or is she simply a dedicated person?'

Miss Stoner, looking at the thing with horror and revulsion, shook her head.

'When do you expect her back?'

'Tomorrow at nine. She said there was a relative to visit, or some such.'

'Then she wouldn't miss this tonight. Oh, what a jewel of a case you brought us!'

He glanced around perfunctorily, stuffed the sack into a pocket and herded us out, only stooping to pick up a hair from the floor. Not human, but beyond that I couldn't tell anything about it. Holmes hid it in a paper envelope which he always had on him for such occasions.

We inspected the inhabited portion of the house. It was not large, but as time went by without any sign from that Holmes found a clew, Miss Stoner began to twist her hands. Her stepfather had not warned when he'd return.

Holmes kept poking the tip of his cane into every crook before looking into it. We did not dare to interrupt him. From what I could read from his face and bearing, he had almost found the answer – but then his hand would go to his pocket, and he would frown in puzzlement.

Once I saw a silent shadow pass outside, and the girl clutched my hand. Then, calming herself, she muttered: 'It's only Juba. He's finished the pork.'

'Does it always fall to you to feed them?'

'Every now and then. At least we don't have to worry about pests.'

'Shouldn't a cheetah scare away the squirrels?' I asked, thinking back to the much less oppressive scenery of the yard. She was surprised.

'But there aren't any… ah, you heard them but did not see. We have a pair of mongooses – I count them as pets.'

We laughed as she recounted some tricks of the animals.

'And here's… here's where it happened.'

Our mirth died as we entered. Holmes had, once again, preceded us there and was, by all appearances, struggling to wriggle up the chimney, though with little success. The staples would not yield to his efforts. Miss Stoner called after him, fearing he might injure himself, and even I was perturbed by the dull banging sounds. However, in the next instant he reappeared, hale and grinning through soot, and returned her a borrowed stump of a candle.

'Now that will stand for millennia! Though I wish, just this once, that we could dissect it like a rat – pardon, Miss Stoner.'

'Oh, it would hardly trouble me,' she replied with equanimity. 'Rats come to bloody ends here.' My friend looked at her approvingly.

Then his eyes narrowed again. 'You said that your stepfather has _at this moment_ a cheetah and a baboon – is that right? What beasts has he had over the years?'

She thought back.

If one could gather all animals which ever happened to live in Stoke Moran, there would be quite a menagerie. It looked like Roylott tired of his toys as soon as they settled down into a semblance of routine – mostly on their own, since he couldn't be called a diligent caretaker. Lion cubs, ostriches, apes… there were even a couple of unmarked graves in the garden where the sisters had buried two unfortunate parakeets.

'The gypsies wanted to stuff them when they saw us bringing them outside.'

'Have you or Miss Julia ever had a row with these people?' Holmes asked instantly.

'No – no, we haven't. We tended to spend more time indoors when they camped on the grounds,' she answered with a blush.

'Understandable. Now, Watson, what do you say about this?'

We discussed the bed, winched to the floor, and the ventilator hole; when publishing the case, I omitted two minor details – the rope hanging by the hole was not worn, but there were several looping threads as if teased aside and pulled. The hole was such that my hand could go in easily. Holmes looked aghast when I actually established the fact.

'Step down, Watson! How can a medic be so careless!'

'But there is nothing there, Holmes.'

'On the contrary,' he said grimly. '_There_ is another room.'


	5. Planning and Safecracking

Chapter 4.

'Will you go there now?' Miss Stoner asked. As the day progressed, her fear grew, and by then she was holding herself together by sheer force of will.

Holmes noticed her condition at a glance. Chivalrously, he submitted to her need instead of pursuing the lead.

'Whatever is hidden there must be contained... Could we prevail upon your offer of tea now, my lady?'

'Certainly,' she replied with readiness. A late lunch was turned into a picnic, to make use of the fine weather. Holmes smiled wryly at the praise I sang to the healing qualities of non-polluted air but permitted us our little self-delusion. In turn, we did not try to engage him in a conversation as he walked this way and that, weighing matters in his mind. To support small talk, I asked the girl about her fiancé; and so we passed some time almost pleasantly until my friend, coming to a sudden halt, turned to us and announced our plans.

'We shall make a reservation at the inn. Is the keeper a friend of the Doctor's?'

'Not at all! He had suffered at his hands repeatedly.'

'And that will work in our favour, for it is you who will stay there tonight.'

This was a sensible approach and a relief to her, but a difficulty was apparent, and I voiced it, albeit warily.

'Shouldn't we lure Roylott into thinking you haven't taken the case? To do this, Miss Stoner should stay and act accordingly…'

The poor girl looked crestfallen. Luckily, Holmes swiftly found a solution.

'At what hour do you have dinner?'

'Half past seven. It is a point at which he isn't willing to… make concessions,' she said with threadbare irony. Holmes's lips thinned.

'There will be danger in any interaction with the man. I cannot promise you protection if you agree to face him again… If this is of any consolation, I do not believe he will stab you over soup; it is not in his nature.'

She laughed shortly, more to hold back tears than out of appreciation for his drollery.

'Poison?' I asked, hating myself. Miss Stoner twisted a napkin in her hands.

'I won't eat a bite. I can't.'

Holmes caught her eye, exuding his nearly magical ability to calm the distraught. 'I cannot promise you protection,' he repeated with some regret. 'But if you keep your wits about you, this will be the last night you'll have to worry about this threat.'

'I shall.'

'Then, after you part ways with him, go to your room; we shall be waiting outside your window. Watson will see you to the inn.'

This went badly with me, for I knew Holmes's penchant to charge into danger alone; but he was implacable.

'No, old boy: clients' safety before our own. If you come back without delay, you should not miss much.'

And so it was that I had to bow to his judgment.

The sun was already climbing down, and we re-entered the house to take a look at Roylott's own room before leaving. Our hostess went about preparations for escape, glad to have something to do.

The layout of the room was largely as I described in my memoir, but again, some details were deliberately left out. For example, we did open the notorious safe.

The lock was not a sophisticated one and Holmes hummed with content as it gave way after a few light touches.

'What do you think we shall find in it?' he asked, drawing away in the last moment.

'Papers, as Miss Stoner said.'

'Only the papers?' he murmured distractedly.

I laid a hand on his shoulder.

'Holmes! Are you suggesting something of a more sinister nature?'

'Has it occurred to you, Watson, that for all our touring the house – and I would like to see the other wing, too, before we take ourselves away for the time being; we shouldn't have wasted so much time out in the sun – we have yet to find the weapon of murder?'

I stared at the block in horror.

'So!' said Holmes, eyes agleam. 'What is hidden here? You've seen as much as I – tell me what you deduce!'

'A poisoned tool? For it must be a slow-acting, lethal agent, delivered with precision and hardly detectable. Unless, of course, an underlying condition contributed to the girl's demise, which otherwise would not be certain.' My blood chilled as I said that; knowing, in my heart, that the man was capable of such villainy.

'Good, very good. By what means would it reach its destination?'

I shrugged. 'An injection? We cannot be certain that the Doctor hadn't put it into her food that evening!'

'Hardly worth consideration; offhand, I do not recall a substance that would cause her symptoms.'

'Neither do I. For all we know, she might have been only frightened when she darted out of the room, and poisoned later, under the guise of first aid.' Repulsion made me cringe. Holmes's expression grew cold.

'Plausible. Do I take it, then, that you predict an unlabeled bottle?'

'What do _you_ expect?' I asked defensively. He turned back to his task, and his voice sounded hollow and severe.

'A bottle, perhaps… and a pair of thick gloves.'

Saying so, he bid me step back and cock my revolver. Then he tied a thick thread to the handle of the safe and, coming to stand beside me, flexed his thin cane and tugged the door open.

It opened slowly.

There were two stacks of envelopes addressed either to Mrs. Stoner to their London home or to Roylott himself, delivered to his club or, later, to Stoke Moran. Next, Holmes took out a folder containing legal papers dealing with property rights and the Doctor's Indian imprisonment and the two above-mentioned police-courts, as well as several polite refusals he'd received when looking for an employment; neatly worded, but a pride like his would smart.

The newer letters – and telegrams, too; while there were almost none from the married period of his life, – were mailed mostly from Midnapore, Liverpool or Plymouth. Those dating to their years together, a smaller bundle, spanned a broader range, due in part to Mrs. Roylott keeping in touch with friends of old, many of them having husbands in the military.

The details which could be gleaned from the documents seemed to me not incriminating, although Holmes frowned at the correspondence Roylott had accumulated in the past eight years.

However, there was nothing in which a mysterious toxin could be stored. Neither there was anything which could be used as a means for its delivery, unless one counted a dainty silver whistle.

'No,' said Holmes in response to my unvoiced question. 'This he reserves for himself. Aha!'

With care, he pried a leaf of wrapping paper off the back wall of the cell. There was a note in Roylott's hand – one of the two I took for a memento after the official conclusion of the case.

81

V 5. Sght in the b/yard – ? Look up ref. on esc.! Gi.-o to look out.

VI 27. a defin sght – post. No luck w/ Newman ( !), almost lost to Juba. Hama not intr – habit?

29. 5 q – no rum.

VIII 30. a slgh in lib. 2.5 ft. **H** avoids kitch. S.-d walls again.

82

IV 15. Heard smth near the w cel. Gr sn? **N** worked-up. Estr? Ill?

VII 1. **Θ** in t/camp – Cl Wh. Sn.-g imb. **moves around?** D.-d pol. talk of SH.

VIII 20. **H** in hyst. Garden, 2 pm.

XII 7. a slgh under st-s (head only). Much dusted. **Hibern**.?

83

I 15. a drd pell of reg.-d [indecipherable]. Libr again. Trend?

III 29. Had t/wall broken; **N** well trained.

At the time I couldn't even begin to fathom what the record meant. Later, as we unraveled the myth which had grown around the estate and its notorious owner, it provided some questions, if not answers.


	6. Preparations and Codes

A/N: another short chapter but hey, it gives you time to deduce! Come on, the riddles aren't difficult. What do you think was the record about? What does the note in this chapter tell you?

Chapter 5.

Reaching the Crown Inn, we explained our business to the landlord and rented a room and a trap. Holmes went out to chat up local lads in the hope to hear stories about the manor. He came back shortly before sunset, grumbling about legends not having a grain of truth. If he expected me to sympathize, he was disappointed. I pretended to jot down the events of the case. In the matter of fact, I was a bit cross with him.

Crossing the greensward, we had argued whether to inform authorities; as was his custom, he deemed it unnecessary. A telegram was sent to Langdale Pike, who of all people was likely to shed light on the persona of 'Cl. Wh.' (Holmes was certain it was another victim of Roylott's – it turned out he was right), and that was that. So far, there was no answer.

The nearest police station was in Leatherhead, and Holmes declared it to be too far to be of any real assistance.

The paucity of our preparations bothered me, and I was short with my friend, who hadn't denied that he would plunge ahead as soon as my back was turned. It was with considerable relief, then, that I noticed our suspect driving past.

'He's back!'

'Excellent. 'We shall set out around eight. From his treatment of her this morning, she shouldn't be desirous of his company.'

'Will you have tea? The night promises to be long.'

As a peace offering, he did take tea with me. Eating, he showed me some lines he'd copied from the letters; later, in a more thorough search of the doctor's papers, we found a torn page with the same excerpts.

'The second note,' Mycroft mused, and I came to myself. Holmes was lying in a cold, tumultuous chasm. Roylott had been dead for years. Even Helen Armitage had recently succumbed to an illness, leaving a bereft widower behind.

And yet Mycroft Holmes had raked up the past… I caught myself suddenly wishing that it were still 1883, that early, glorious and terrible spring.

He read the messages aloud, unaware of my brooding.

'…_Merridew sends his regards._

_Buries ivy or log – 'Dr. (Hon.) K.'s a mad one!' By no man sail…'_

'_Merridew is as meek as ever. _

_Carols & jelly (we're pear-less). Ram-led...'_

'_Merridew sends his best wishes. _

_Linn's cheetah prey – 'taste us"...'_

Here, Mycroft spared me a cursory glance.

'You were taken in by the 'cheetah prey', weren't you?'

'Not both of us.'

'Naturally,' snorted the elder Holmes.

The only Holmes.

'Patterson would be grateful for such prey,' he continued placidly. 'The only thing I can hardly believe is that Sherlock had misread the other one… or had he? How much of the story is your invention?'

'He had come to a preliminary conclusion, a sound one – and mad enough to appeal to him.' I chose not to remind the man that he was the one to interrupt me.

'Well, well. Who would have known that Surrey was such a pit! But I apologize. Do go on, Doctor.'


	7. A False Deduction

A/N: action chapter… I hate writing them… let me know if there are too many clichés.

We stopped some distance from the ruined gates, as near as the pony's disquiet allowed; then I waited while Holmes stole over to the house. My heart skipped a beat when a blacker shadow rushed past him; I could not help or even warn. He stopped momentarily, then, with uncharacteristic thoughtfulness, returned and explained about it being only the Doctor's baboon.

'Dear fellow,' I whispered, remembering at the last moment not to say his name out loud, but Holmes gripped my hand in rebuke. 'If anything happens, convey her to my brother. She is the only witness!'

And with that, he readied the revolver I loaned him, and was gone.

After a while the girl, in riding clothes and with a handbag, crept out and sighed with relief at the sight of the trap. I offered her a hand, but she shook her head, and for awhile we simply walked. The need for secrecy tore at me, because it delayed my joining Holmes; and despite our plan, I had never intended to stay by her side.

Finally, she agreed to mount. The pony gladly picked up pace. The cloth wrapped around its hooves muffled its steps, though the road was so quiet that it didn't seem to help at all. The ground was dry.

'Forgive me,' Miss Stoner ventured. 'For tarrying.'

'It doesn't matter,' I said, as much to reassure myself as to ease her conscience. 'I shall deposit you at the inn and come back here. The host knows -'

'No!' she caught my arm. 'You can't just leave me there! You can't!'

'Miss Stoner…'

'I'm afraid. I'm not usually so, so, out of my mind with terror, it's just those whistles, they mean something – _you can't do this to me_! Mr. Holmes promised you'll stay with me!'

'You will be completely safe...'

'Stay,' she sobbed. 'Oh, stay.'

She clung to me and pleaded all the rest of the way, but she could not make me change my mind. (I learned later that she only followed Holmes's bidding.) At last, when the innkeeper's dog welcomed us to the deserted yard, she wiped her face and hopped down without a backward glance.

'Helen,' I called softly.

'What is it?'

'If we don't return in the morning, go directly to Baker Street. Ask Mrs. Hudson to send a message to Mycroft Holmes.'

'I will.'

She stood to the side, sniffing, and waited to see me off. It did not occur to me that I was leaving her well nigh defenceless, or to ask if she had money for a ticket.

How I drove! Twice the beast saved us from going over into the ditch. Even so, we were late. The horrible cry rose and rose as I dashed up the stairs and hurled myself at the locked door; it was at its highest pitch when I broke the pane of Miss Helen's former window, and just as I launched myself into the house it broke off – and then, as I was brushing myself off, Holmes called out grimly.

'Watson! Beware of the bat -'

'I am without a light,' I replied. My head was playing tricks on me after an unlucky landing on the hard floor – the table, which should have born the brunt of my fall, had been moved to the next room for the time of the repairs; I was hearing sounds where no sounds should have come from…

'Darn it,' Holmes said with feeling, and there was the sound of a key being turned. Then, hurried footsteps. 'I would think it has already spent all poison… but, better safe than sorry...'

A flash of light; he was checking the hall.

'A bat?' I asked, still trying to shake tintinnus out of my ears. A solid scarf settled over my ankle. I decided not to move it just yet and waited for Holmes to come to my aid, which I only required through my own foolish haste. There was broken glass everywhere, and the thing weighed more that any bat I could imagine.

Immediately a vision of a great, pouting vampire with leathery wings came to my mind, and I laughed.

'I didn't see where it has flown.'

'Probably you frightened it, and it won't come out for a very long time.'

'Bah!'

He was unsatisfied with the ending, but I did not particularly care. Whatever had to happen, happened, and there could be no mistake that Dr. Roylott had paid for his sins.

_Sinssss_, agreed the darkness. One by one, the fine hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

'Holmes,' I said, calmly. There was no need to speak any louder; he was opening the door. I could see a corner already by the light of his dark lantern.

'Are you all right, dear chap? We should hurry up; the noise was rather unfortunate – '

'Stay away.'

'Why? Wats…'

He stood there, on the threshold, nearly invisible to me but not to the long, thin reptile coiling and uncoiling between us. He would see the dull gleam of its eyes. And the snake didn't even rely on them to strike; it possessed unmatched speed, too.

Then he backed a step and raised the lantern to briefly sweep the room with its narrow glare, making certain there were no other surprises.

'I stand corrected. The evidence was overwhelmingly in favour of a bat, though.'

'Don't drop the light.'

There was a hiss as I gathered my legs under me.

We each of us were a target and a threat. Behind us lied a way to escape.

'I don't think I can catch it using only one hand,' Holmes admitted. 'Not even with you holding the other end.'

He took a thing out from his pocket – a thing that required him to lean on the doorjamb and take a very careful aim.

'_Did_ it bite Roylott?' I asked. That endless cry would only have lasted a few seconds.

'I am not sure. A stroke looked equally plausible.'

'He did shout, though.'

'You will have to examine him, then. Steady now…'

He cocked the revolver. There was another hiss, as the snake chose its victim.

He didn't stand one chance out of fifty, so I lunged forward with an outstretched arm.

A shot rang out, the snake crossed the room in a blur, darting between Holmes's feet, Holmes himself jumped up (with more alacrity than grace, since he forgot to duck his head), and a lithe, furry little creature whizzed from behind my back and out through the doorway.

The light danced madly but didn't go out.

'A mongoose!' I heard from where I was lying. It registered with me that Holmes was furious.

'Yes, a mongoose. What's so surprising about it?'

'You should've _told_ me about it, that's what! How was I to know – how was I to _deduce_ – what was that woman thinking? What were _you_ thinking?'

'Ah.' I sat up, dazed, but whole. 'She counts them as pets.'

Here Holmes pulled me up with words which society restraints us from uttering. From down the hall came sounds of battle, one we had to resume.

'She would. Well, friend Watson, half of the mystery is solved.'

'I do hope the rest is something simple and straightforward.'

_And not here_, I didn't add.

'It might take a bit of weeding, but we won't have to do it by ourselves… Hark!'

The mongoose returned victorious.


	8. A Broadside or Two

'And that is the end of the tale. Further details I promised not to disclose.'

Mycroft gave a lazy nod. He looked woken up from a pleasant nap, but I had caught the tell-tale puckering of his eyes and a too-relaxed poise – same as Holmes used to affect – and was not fooled.

'I would hear the next one.' Mr. Government sighed. 'A short version, if you don't mind.'

'The one with spies, cloaks, daggers, ghosts, cards, and the fate of the country at stake?' I asked drily.

For a moment, a fleeting moment, I thought the man was going to grab me by the throat and shake until – but then it passed, and I couldn't even finish the thought. With a little sniff, he settled back and said with acerbity, 'Joking is not your strong point, Doctor.'

As I chose to let it slide – along with some uncounted seconds; I knew by then the best way to annoy him was to waste his time – he picked up the messages and smiled in a detached manner.

'Crude and unimaginative, but it served.'

'For a time.'

'Do not underestimate them. This is the work of an organization; how else would one collect such different items?'

'A single raid could provide most of the spoils, if the looters were lucky in their choice of a rich man's house,' I pointed out. '_Rubies, ivory, gold, horn, damask, ebony, no animals. Corals, jewellery, pearls, emeralds. Chryselephantine statues._'

'Stylish,' Mycroft said. 'I like 'chryselephantine' best. You should use it sometime... Anyway, consider the difficulty of transporting the lot!'

'Which is why it was separated into manageable parts.'

'And the 'no animals' remark hints at earlier deliveries.'

'A joke between old friends. Observe there are no references to it in later messages.'

'By Jove, you have put some thought into it.'

'Not I.'

He smiled. He probably agreed.

'I have read the police reports.'

The game was up. I didn't understand, though, why was he testing my word if the people who demanded it of me had already told him everything.

'So, you two unearthed a link in a smuggling operation the size of Manchester. I had to redistribute forces to take care of the rest of the chain.'

_How unfortunate_, I communicated wordlessly.

'Why did he think it was a bat?' Mycroft wondered, in what passed for honest uncomprehending.

'Romantic associations, I suppose.' I was still a bit sore with Holmes for that miscalculation. 'He had worked out a method of poisoning its claws and training it to do some tricks, and it was so beautiful as to eclipse all other evidence. The _slgh_ meant 'a slough', and if only we guessed that Hama and Juba were derived from _Papio hamadryas_ and _Acinonyx_ _jubatus_, the mongoose would not come as a surprise.'

'_Herpestes ichneumon_. Neat.' As usual, his erudition held. 'But… if it were a snake… why did Roylott whistle?'

'_He _thought snakes could hear.'[1]

For the first and only time, I saw the dreaded mind grind to a helpless stop.

I leaned back and smiled, in my turn.

'By the way, I am going to include the Cl. Wh. incident into one of my further tales.'

But Mycroft Holmes was above such trifles. He carefully measured out a spoon of sugar and drank his syrup in meditation.

'Fiction should not obscure the truth and moral of the story,' he remarked, and I knew I was forgiven my trespasses. 'If only you portrayed the villain as he were…'

'An ex-military with two step-daughters he couldn't understand – beyond the fact that the property he'd married to would be married away?.. I wouldn't be able to keep disgust from colouring the narration, and Holmes did so object to that.'

'No, no – as my brother would have said, there was a deeper rot within his core: that of sheer stupidity. Oh, I would like to live to a day when people will see it for the abomination it is!'

'Moronity in the villain doesn't make for an attractive literature device,' I pointed out with some temerity.

'Nor does it become the sleuth.'

'Mr. Holmes!'

'His oversight very nearly had you both killed, Doctor.'

'And yet it didn't.' I shrugged and picked the volume again, scanning the pages for typos.

''The schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another'?..' Mycroft's very politeness made his opinion painfully clear.

But it was a dangerous allusion, and to make it ever more so, I did not answer. Of course, he understood.

'We could make some use of you here,' Mycroft mused aloud. 'You have the skill of reducing tragedy to mere horror.'

It took an effort not to say the first thing that came to my mind.

'It has been known to fail me… on occasion.'

He inclined his head, dismissing me, and I was glad he did so.

_Epilogue_

London, 221b Baker Street, a year later.

It was a balmy evening on the very cusp of summer. An incredible feat had returned my friend to me, and I still had difficulty believing he was, indeed, before me, perusing mail with his usual air of unconcern until something would catch his eye. I called that moment of recognition, when Holmes shed the persona of an old bookseller, again to my mind's eye: the incongruous, merry voice, his whole image flowing into life: gaze twinkling, shoulders thrown back from a painful stoop…

'By the way, old chap,' Holmes said suddenly, flashing me an amused glance. 'I should compliment your industry – to publish such a quantity of stories! A true writer!'

'Only my industry?'

'I am no judge of style – '

'Surely not, you've never aspired to be – '

'Though I must admit, they are quite popular. I lost count of the times I had to loan my copies to people who would have done better to start their own collection; and that advice was never heeded.'

'Then I've done more than I could have hoped,' I said sincerely.

He inclined his head, showing reserve which marks true feeling.

'I was meaning to ask you, though, are you going to continue with it? Writing up our cases for posterity?'

'Laugh all you want! I did intend to write more – if you don't mind, that is.'

'Never! What have you selected next?'

'That crown affair should come out next week; then the Surrey burglary and murder – the ones you insisted on looking in, against my better judgment. I have no set plans for July.'

Holmes looked at me shrewdly.

'Take the case of Colonel Barclay's death. And I would like to contribute my mite or two, if _you_ don't mind.'

'Certainly,' I replied in some amazement. He tore out a bit of paper from the nearest envelope and quickly scribbled a line.

'Here. Let Mr. Henry Wood say this.'

I read the statement, and puzzled though I was, included it into the final version of the tale: _s__hould think of __… __ as having died with a straight back_.

(Same location, years later.

'YOU ARE GOING TO LIVE _WHERE_?'

'Watson, old chap…'

'Is London too dull for you? I'll go murder someone myself –'

'Shh, here, have a sip – don't make such a fuss – I promise I'll go abroad – do a bit of international espionage in, mm, America will do, I suppose – '

'It's practically across the road from _Surrey_! You'll have killer bees!')

[1] Naturally, Roylott was calling the mongoose; Watson simply couldn't resist the temptation. Personally I am going to forgive him this time.


End file.
